Freeman Crofts – Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery (страница 6)
By dint of patient questioning he presently knew all they had to tell. It appeared that shortly after the ladies had left a ring had come to the door. Susan had opened it to find two men standing without. One was tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and clean-shaven face, the other small and pale—pale face, pale hair and tiny pale moustache. They had inquired for Mr Maxwell Cheyne, and when she had said he was out the small man had asked if he could write a note. She had brought them into the hall and was turning to go for some paper when the big man had sprung on her and before she could cry out had pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. The small man had shut the door and begun to tie her wrists and ankles. Susan had struggled and in spite of them had succeeded in getting her mouth free and shouting a warning to cook, but she had been immediately overpowered and securely gagged. The men had laid her on the floor of the hall and had seemed about to go upstairs when cook, attracted by Susan’s cry, had appeared at the door leading to the back premises. The two men had instantly rushed over, and in a few seconds cook also lay bound and gagged on the floor. They had then disappeared, apparently to search the house, for in a few minutes they had come back and carried first Susan and then cook to the latter’s room at the far end of the back return. The intruders had then withdrawn, closing the door, and the two women had neither heard nor seen anything further of them.
The whole episode had a curious effect on Cheyne. It seemed, as he considered it, to lose its character of an ordinary breach of the law, punishable by the authorised forces of the Crown, and to take on instead that of a personal struggle between himself and these unknown men. The more he thought of it the more inclined he became to accept the challenge and to pit his own brain and powers against theirs. The mysterious nature of the affair appealed to his sporting instincts, and by the time he rejoined the sergeant in the study, he had made up his mind to keep his own counsel as to the Plymouth incident. He would call up the manager of the Edgecombe, tell him to carry on with his private detective, and have the latter down to Warren Lodge to go into the matter of the burglary.
He found the sergeant attempting ineffectively to discover fingerprints on the smooth walls of the safe, sympathised with him in the difficulty of his task, and asked a number of deliberately futile questions. On the grounds that nothing had been stolen he minimised the gravity of the affair, questioned his power to prosecute should the offenders be forthcoming, and instilled doubts into the other’s mind as to the need for special efforts to run them to earth. Finally, the man explaining that he had finished for the time being, he bade him good-night, locked up the house and went to bed. There he lay for several hours tossing and turning as he puzzled over the affair, before sleep descended to blot out his worries and soothe his eager desire to be on the track of his enemies.
For several days after the attempted burglary events in the Cheyne household pursued the even tenor of their way. Cheyne went back to Plymouth on the following morning and interviewed the manager of the Edgecombe, and the day after a quiet, despondent looking man with the air of a small shopkeeper arrived at Warren Lodge and was closeted with Cheyne for a couple of hours. Mr Speedwell, of Horton and Lavender’s Private Detective Agency, listened with attention to the tales of the drugging and the burglary, thenceforward appearing at intervals and making mysterious inquiries on his own account.
On one of these visits he brought with him the report of the analyst relative to the dishes of which Cheyne had partaken at lunch, but this document only increased the mystification the affair had caused. No trace of drugs was discernable in any of the food or drink in question, and as the soiled plates or glasses or cups of
But in spite of the analysis, the coffee still seemed the doubtful item. Cheyne’s sleepy feeling had come one very rapidly immediately after drinking the coffee, before which he had not felt the slightest abnormal symptoms. Mr Speedwell laid stress on this point, though he was pessimistic about the whole affair.
‘They know what they’re about, does this gang,’ he admitted ruefully as he and Cheyne were discussing matters. ‘That man in the hotel that called himself Parkes—if we found him tomorrow we should have precious little against him. However he managed it, we can’t prove he drugged you. In fact it’s the other way round. He can prove on our evidence that he didn’t.’
‘It looks like it. You haven’t been able to find out anything about him?’
‘Not a thing, sir; that is, not what would be any use. I can prove that he sent your telegram all right; the girl in the Post Office recognised his description. But I couldn’t get on to his trail after that. I’ve tried the stations and the docks and the posting establishments and the hotels and I can’t get a trace. But of course I’ll maybe get it yet.’
‘What about the address given on his card?’
‘Tried that first thing. No good. No one of the name known in the district.’
‘When did the man arrive at the hotel?’
‘Just after you did, Mr Cheyne. He probably picked you up somewhere else and was following you to see where you’d get lunch.’
‘Oh, well, that explains something. I was wondering how he knew I was going to the Edgecombe.’
‘It doesn’t explain so very much, sir. Question still is, how did he get all that other information about you; the name of your lawyer and so on?’
Cheyne had to admit that the prospects of clearing up the affair were not rosy. ‘But what about the burglary?’ he went on more hopefully. ‘That should be an easier nut to crack.’
Speedwell was still pessimistic.
‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ he answered gloomily. ‘There’s not much to go on there either. The only chance is to trace the men’s arrival or departure. Now individually the private detective is every bit as good as the police; better, in fact, because he’s not so tied up with red tape. But he hasn’t their organisation. In a case like this, when the police with their enormous organisation have failed, the private detective hasn’t a big chance. However, of course I’ve not given up.’
He paused, and then drawing a little closer to Cheyne and lowering his voice, he went on impressively: ‘You know, sir, I hope you’ll not consider me out of place in saying it, but I had hoped to get my best clue from yourself. There can be no doubt that these men are after some paper that you have, or that they think you have. If you could tell me what it was, it might make all the difference.’
Cheyne made a gesture of impatience.
‘Don’t I know that,’ he cried. ‘Haven’t I been racking my brains over that question since ever the thing happened! I can’t think of anything. In fact, I can tell you there
Speedwell nodded and a sly look came into his eyes.
‘Well, sir, if you can’t tell, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it.’ He paused as if to refer to some other matter, then apparently thinking better of it, concluded: ‘You have my address, and if anything should occur to you I hope you’ll let me know without delay.’
When Speedwell had taken his departure Cheyne sat on in the study, thinking over the problem the other had presented, but as he did so he had no idea that before that very day was out he should himself have received information which would clear up the point at issue, as well as a good many of the other puzzling features of the strange events in which he had become involved.
Shortly after lunch, then, on this day, the eighth after the burglary and drugging, Cheyne on re-entering the house after a stroll round the garden, was handed a card and told that the owner was waiting to see him in his study. Mr Arthur Lamson, of 17 Acacia Terrace, Bland Road, Devonport, proved to be a youngish man of middle height and build, with the ruggedly chiselled features usually termed hard-bitten, a thick black toothbrush moustache and glasses. Cheyne was not particularly prepossessed by his appearance, but he spoke in an educated way and had the easy polish of a man of the world.
‘I have to apologise for this intrusion, Mr Cheyne,’ he began in a pleasant tone, ‘but the fact is I wondered whether I could interest you in a small invention of mine. I got your name from Messrs Holt & Stavenage, the Plymouth ship chandlers. They told me you dealt with them and how keen you were on yachting, and as my invention relates to the navigation of coasting craft, I hoped you might allow me to show it to you.’